Always this ridiculous obsession with Love: A Greek Story

There is a story, that is both comical and divine. It attempts to explain how we are roaming this earth, half and incomplete, searching for the other that makes us complete. It is a tale that is told countless times, referred to a million times and probably the one I like best (be it told in its original form as Aristophanes' speech in Plato's Symposium or in its modern modification in Hedwig's Origin of Love).

According to the myth, there were three sexes. Two-bodied women, men who were stuck back to back, and the halfmen-halfwomen creatures. They're all us, by the way. One day, they angered the gods and Zeus in his anger struck thunderbolts (or heavenly knives, I am not sure) and split these doubles into singles, and they were scattered all over the world.

Ever since then, we've been trying to piece ourselves back together with metaphorical staples and thread. Happy finding, my friends.

Love, the day after.

Love is a Dali painting with no pain.
Love is waiting in the light rain
and wondering if you'd show up.
Love is a Special Edition DVD Eddie Izzard boxset,
Watching it with chips - not caring about becoming fat.

Love, as I can tell, is a kind of state of mind
where you have no idea if you're in pause or rewind.
And your head's in the air and the only way is up, up.
Love is a half-read book with pencil'd notes
at the side. Receipts crumpled in the pocket of my coat.

Love is buying flowers at half the price.
Love is the taste of sugary spice.
It is the feeling of hearts mixing into a homemade cocktail
(or rather mocktail).
It is when you stop believing in such a thing as love songs.
Only to be proven wrong.

Basically. Love is the simple appreciation of the things around you
and making much of the few.

I just want to be Filthy Rich!

You, reader, must know of my aversion (call it suppression if you like) to TV shows. But. I have made an exception and when I make exceptions, it has to be the best. After all, if you're going to do something - do it well. And so. Allow me to introduce you (fanfare please) to The Riches! 

The show follows the lives of a Traveler (Irish Gypsies who roam around the United States pick pocketing and conning their way about life) family who end up impersonating a dead man's life. It's got everything you need in a show: excellent dialogue, edge-of-your-seat-tongue-wagging-eyes-popping suspense, cross-dressing, Southern hospitality, lies, deceit, llamas, sex in a Benz, and of course, Eddie Izzard - who is at the moment, the bane of my existence. Yes. I am in love. It's a transcendental trashy unexplainable kind of love. Minnie Driver gives an excellent performance too. 

Right. Watch it if you can. You won't regret it. 

 

If Hell was a blues bar, I'd gladly be a sinner!

Last night was my induction into the shady swanky smoky (even with the smoking ban, if you get my drift) world of the blues, courtesy of some good friends from SOAS (thank ye, James). We sat at a table right next to the stage, and therefore got the full brunt of the music - not that I'm complaining. The early evening saw the crowd serenaded by two men with guitar, singing everything from Dylan to Lennon. As it got later, and the lights got dimmer, the small stage was compacted rather ingeniously with a full set of drums, a double bass, audio boxes of some sort, and of course the West Weston lads with their harmonicas and blues charm. When they began, the evening truly did too. Everyone was moving to the beat and for one moment, all seemed just fine with the world. And with the blues, all will be taken in our stride.

All in all, a good evening. And lastly and most importantly, thank you Art Mitchells-Urwin (the person, the idiom and the concept rolled into one person), for reminding me that there is still much humanity and respect in this world.

West Weston, play me the blues, boys.

Ending 2008 with Bombs and Blood

So much for the promise of change, peace and a better world. 

Israel opened the borders to Gaza. Supplies were needed. A humanitarian crisis of inhuman proportions. Only to begin an air strike (with "surgical precision") that has left 271 Palestinians dead. No New Year's Eve for them - their fireworks are way too real. 

I was at the protest today outside the Israeli Embassy. There was a great turnout and the crowds were waving the flag high, shouting chants of Free Free Palestine. The cause will never be short of its supporters and the shouts of protest will never cease as long as the occupation continues. 

As John and Yoko said all those years ago (their relevance will transcend time), War Is Over. If you want it.

 

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday dear cousin Fairuz.
On this day yourself you must amuse.
Sing in the streets, dance in puddles.
On this day you have no chagrin or no troubles.

Happy birthday and enjoy your day.
Have some cake, balloons and happiness.
All on a glittering and blinding tray.
It's a day of fun and laughter and fanciness.

Tricks, Plates and Turkish Delights.

Tricks are those you play on me.
Plates are what we eat on.
Turkish Delights are what we eat.

The Ottoman Sultan is on his throne.
Under his turban, all you see is his beard and two feet.
He is smoking a pipe and drinking mint tea.

The Grand Vizier is contemplating his fate.
He's writing policies and is not alone
In his room, the lights are luminated low, breeze from the Bosphorous sea.

Tricks and kings and desire and affairs of state and evening twlight.
Miniature paintings and capitulations and my heart's on a throne
Whenever I am eating Turkish Delights.

Freedom, definition

freedom |ˈfrēdəm|

noun

ORIGIN Old English frēo (adjective), frēon (verb), of Germanic origin; related to Dutch vrij and German frei.

. the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved. 

I'd really like to take this opportunity to show my appreciation for the support of the general public for their kind wishes, friends from school and those I have been fortunate to meet along the way, and most importantly, family because without them, there is no us. 

Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

This should not be taken as an opportunity to speculate or continue on with the vicious rumours. It is simply a celebration of my father's release from prison. I would appreciate it if we could be left to pick up and regain the last two years we have lost. Thank you. 

The Disability of Language

This is going to be a difficult post to write, as the title suggests and as you can imagine. Words can be as beautiful as they are disabling. Do we always mean what we say? Do we say things to hide what we really mean? Do we mean I love you when we say I love you or do we indeed actually very really mean something completely different?

I've been thinking about this for some time now and I've been trying to figure it all out and I may have come to the simple conclusion that words do not always express how we truly feel. Books and books, words after words, blogs beyond blogs, speeches spoken speeches - are we saying what can't be said with just wondrous words?

In art - no matter the medium - could it be possible that feeling and emotion is expressed more clearly? Colour, shapes, paint, plaster - a potpourri of possible intentions. But they could mean so many things, there is no definite meaning. As such, it is only words that can decide what it is we mean something that we want to reveal, or hide. Which then makes me wonder, are words there to hide what we mean or to attempt to explain what we do indeed want to say?

The debate I suppose continues. Language is a beautiful phenomenon and words are like confetti. But what on earth do I mean by that, right?